LITMIR.BIZ

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cast her a quick grin. “I thought after that note and two hours of being yelled at by Palmer, you could use a break.”

      “And a good meal?”

      “If you’re up to cooking one, sure. Billy does soup, toast and really bad coffee.”

      Vanessa set her head on the leather rest, hooked a leg underneath her. Rick’s hair was long enough to fall over his cheek. Although she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t resist reaching over to finger the dark strands. “Has anyone ever told you you smell really good?”

      The grin reappeared. “Gotta say no to that one.”

      “You have nice hair, too.”

      “That’s been mentioned. Just last week in fact. By Emily.”

      “Ah, right, okay then.”

      He caught her fingers before she could withdraw. “Em’s my partner’s daughter, Vanessa. She’s eight.”

      “And I’ll bet she has a great big crush on Uncle Rick…Hey, wait, stop that. What are you doing?”

      He ran his thumb over her knuckles before lifting them to his mouth. “Kissing your hand.”

      She gave her fingers a tug. “That’s a really bad idea, Maguire.” A delicious sensation, she had to admit as a powerful zing arrowed straight to her elbow, but a worse than bad idea.

      He rolled to a halt in front of a wooden row house with a solid set of redbrick stairs and a sturdy handrail. His lips moved from her knuckles to the tips of her fingers.

      Okay, now this was just plain wrong. But far too tantalizing to protest. Much.

      “Rick, I really don’t think…” His eyes caught hers, and even by feeble streetlight turned her brain to mush. She forced herself to breathe. “Totally lost the thought.”

      Fortunately for her, he hadn’t. When she gave her hand another small tug, he kissed her palm, then released her.

      Wiggling her still tingling fingers, Vanessa marveled at the effect. “I’ve never reacted like this before. I’m usually spectacular with self-control. You’re doing things to me, Maguire, and I’m sure they can’t be healthy.”

      “Same thought’s been on my mind.”

      “So what do we do about it?”

      “Turn spectacular into superhuman.” Before she could form a reply, he gestured at the glove box. “There’s a bottle of pills inside.”

      “You need medication to control your hormones?”

      “Painkillers.” He captured her chin so she was forced to meet his dark eyes. “Feds get headaches, too.”

      Vanessa decided she needed a cold shower, almost as badly as the pills.

      She pushed the release button once, then again. Nothing happened. “Your Porsche has a few bugs.”

      “Idiosyncrasies.” Leaning over, he coaxed the latch.

      “Still nothing,” she remarked. Except that she was practically plastered against her seat trying to avoid contact with Rick’s arm.

      It didn’t work. Even though she pressed herself deeper into the leather, his shoulder brushed across her breast.

      Something inside her gave. It practically exploded—which didn’t say a lot for her recent sex life, or her willpower.

      Rick moved, he must have, because the next thing Vanessa knew that incredibly tempting mouth was crushed onto hers, open and hot and hungry.

      He was good, very good at kissing, she managed to think. He tasted like sex, the kind she’d wished for but had never had. She wanted to abandon logic and simply react. There was greed inside her. Greed and need and a hunger so fierce it frightened her.

      Almost.

      She wrapped her arms around his neck while his tongue explored every inch of her mouth. It wasn’t enough.

      Alarm bells clanged in some foggy corner of her brain. Ignoring them, Vanessa slid her fingers through his hair. She inhaled him, longed to get closer, considered straddling him right there in the car.

      Oh, yeah, great idea. In the car. One that was parked outside his mentor’s house on a hot summer night in the Mission District.

      “Rick.” She pulled back, tried not to gasp for air. “We have an audience.”

      “Windows are tinted.”

      “Good…No, not good.” But she allowed herself another moment to enjoy the taste of him, to run her tongue over his teeth and give his lower lip a wicked tug. “This has to be the quintessential James Bond moment.”

      He smiled against her mouth. “Is that my cue to whip out the martinis?”

      Vanessa’s hand traveled down his chest to his fly. “I can think of better things you could whip out.” She glimpsed increased motion beyond the windows. “But not here. Not now.”

      “Not at all?”

      “Pretty sure I didn’t say that.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip while he rested his forehead against hers. “Wow, you kiss good.”

      “Right back at you, Detective.”

      Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she struggled for sanity. “We’re messing up, you know. The killer could be standing outside, hidden behind one of those big sidewalk trees.”

      “Which is why I’m getting out first.”

      Humor warred with desire. “You might want to hold up on that. Those jeans don’t hide much.”

      The expression in his eyes made her laugh. Her tension abated. She kissed his cheek. “Life’s as twisted as the streets of San Francisco, isn’t it?”

      “Only since I met you.”

      Vanessa’s cell phone began to ring. Digging it from her bag, she checked the screen. “No ID. Could be one of my snitches. Detective Connor,” she answered.

      A man’s voice snarled at her. “An eye for an eye, Detective. I’ve got mine on you.” The snarl became a rough whisper. “Don’t blink.”

      

      “IT TOOK US TEN MINUTES to get inside your house from the curb, Billy.” Rick slapped his palm on the side of a mahogany cabinet. “I damn near shot a guy who was pulling a pack of smokes from his back pocket.”

      “You didn’t, though, and neither did Vanessa.” The clatter of saws and hammers issuing from the kitchen forced Billy to raise his voice.

      “Shows how well-trained you are.”

      “Yeah, really well-trained.” Rick searched for something else to hit. He settled for the living-room wall. Two of the crosses Billy had hung there jumped.

      “Don’t you start knocking God’s stuff around,” the old man ordered. “Those crosses belonged to my Louisiana granny.”

      So had the rosary beads and the three crucifixes above the foyer door. The portrait of the Madonna had been painted by Billy himself at the tender age of twelve.

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